


Nurturing Flames

by genarti



Series: Lunar Base ABC [2]
Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Friendship, Gen, Kevin (sort of), Tattoos, pure silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 05:33:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1375702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genarti/pseuds/genarti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More of the Moon Base AU: Prouvaire and Bahorel, in a quiet moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nurturing Flames

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PilferingApples](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PilferingApples/gifts).



> Written for the prompt "Bahorel, Jehan, Spaaaaace!"

ABC Base was studded with many small common rooms, all more or less cast from the same mold. One particularly ordinary type was this: a blue bubble of a room, provided with six chairs upholstered in aging rust-colored cloth, a small table of dingy yellow, two orange trees in pots and a collection of wall-mounted ferns. The plants served many purposes: to cheer the soul, to clean the air, to provide scientists with experimental specimens. The oranges were eaten, but the tree was not now in fruit.

In the room sat two young men. Neither was using a chair for its intended purpose. The younger of the two, who was also the taller, sat cross-legged upon the table. He wore the archaic one-piece jumpsuit favored by a certain sort of young moon-dweller in conscious commemoration of their astronaut forebears. His was of dark blue, worn over a pale green shirt bearing the logo of a band twenty years out of style, and adorned with a large number of decorative patches. His hair was bright pink, at that time a statement of artistic allegiance within the complicated codes of the Lacunistes, and drawn back into a short scrub of a tail at the back of his neck. His name was Prouvaire. His birth certificate had once declared him Jean; the central computer's records maintained that he was Kevin; his friends, in accordance with his wishes, called him Jehan.

His companion was seated on the floor with his shoulders resting against his companion’s knees. His head was shaved, as so many long-time lunar colonists' were. To draw further attention to it, he had had the majority of his pate tattooed with color-shifting ink. Prouvaire had used the control stylus to shift most of the ink to translucent shadows and studded most of Bahorel's already dark head with pale stars in constellations rather more whimsical than accurate. He was now drawing swirling flames in red and orange around the nape of Bahorel's neck. They leaped halfway to the crown of his head. Prouvaire’s enthusiasm had grown as he worked.

"I'd like to see a fire sometime," Prouvaire said wistfully. "Did you ever? On Earth?"

Bahorel grinned at the memory, though he was careful not to move his head. “Yep.”

"Really?"

"Really. I made sure of it. What’s the point of going Earthside if you don't look at things we can't have up here? It was a campfire –- one of those little contained ones, about the size of a room heater."

“ _Oh_ ," Prouvaire sighed. Dreamily, he clicked his stylus over to grey and began to draw a billowing cloud of smoke. It curled towards Bahorel's ear.

"Marvelous thing. It looks just like in the vids, but there’s something primal about seeing it. You hear the crackle –- it really does that, bits of the fuel exploding or something -– and feel the heat pour out, if you're close enough. It's not at all efficient. Combeferre and Feuilly would scoff." Prouvaire rolled his eyes in affectionate scorn. "You barely feel it from a few steps back, just a bit of warmth, and then you step closer and all of a sudden your shins are on the verge of scorching. They have so much air, it doesn’t even bother them. They set fires like that recreationally."

"I wish we could."

"Makes you think about where we came from. You look at that fire, you think -- cavemen used to keep warm with this. They'd roast rats and mammoth steaks and all. Grubbing about in the dirt, dreaming of the stars, keeping themselves warm in the cold night. And now here we are. Christ, Jehan, that tickles."

"Shush. I'm drawing you a dragon."

"Your dragon is tickling my ear."

"He's a work of art. Primal. He'd burn up all the air in here if he were real."

Bahorel shivered, only half in jest. "Good thing he isn't. I like my body functioning, thanks."

"Of course. I don't really want to see a fire _here_. But it would be beautiful, before we all died."

Combeferre, Enjolras, Joly, or Feuilly would have pointed out the existence of the sensitive, ubiquitous, and scrupulously maintained fire suppressant systems: the airtight doors to seal it in, the chemical foams, the ventilation system ready to lock down each cell into a self-contained unit, the air scrubbers to salvage the oxygen and clear away soot and smoke. Bahorel only tipped his head back into Prouvaire’s lap, and said "Yeah. It would."


End file.
